A few weeks ago on our way to church, Marcus asked me why I hadn’t written since we’ve been married, now nearly five months ago. Of course I knew that I hadn’t been writing, but his question still made me pause and wonder myself. Sure, my excuses were all valid: work is exhausting; I’m too tired; I want to spend time with you after work rather than alone in another room, etc. For a while, I think my excuses even convinced me. Last night, though, Marcus and I were watching Midnight in Paris (a.k.a. our favorite movie of all time), and one of the lines really hit me. At one point, Inez says of her fiancé (and the protagonist of the movie), Gil, that he doesn’t know if he can really write a novel. Ah, there’s the rub, as they say. My excuses justifying my lack of writing really all stem from one question: can I really write something worthwhile after taking a break from it and without the support system of other writers and professors pushing me forward and asking the difficult questions?
Ultimately, I suppose there’s only one way to find out. And so, I embark on that terrifying journey of words. Today marks the beginning. For those of you who know me well or know me as a writer – which is perhaps even more important – please check up on me. Solitude as a writer only looks good on paper. I’d be happy to be there for you as well. Also, look out for some letters in the mail. I’ve neglected those lately too and it’s high time to stop with the excuses.